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IT was altogether another and a different book
that my friend Buffalo Child Long Lance
might have written. He might have written to
tell how he won scholastic and athletic honours at
Carlisle and at Manlius; of how, while mastering
the white man's tongue, he learned half a dozen
tribal languages other than his own; of how, hav-
ing received a Presidential award of appointment
to West Point, he threw away that most cherished
dream of his—the dream of being a full-blooded
Indian officer of our regular army—to cross the
line in 1914 and at the first call for recruits for
overseas service to enlist in the Canadian forces;
of how, going in as a private, he came out at the
end of the World War, as a captain of volunteers,
his body covered with wounds and his breast glit-
tering with medals bestowed for high conduct
and gallantry; of how he fought as a sniper, as a
raider, as a leader of forlorn hopes in the trenches
and across No Man's Land; of how his own people
conferred upon him the chieftainship of one of the